Happiness is a Warm Gun
by 5thvofvnovember
Summary: Molly helps Sherlock after the Fall with taking down Moriarty's criminal web.
1. Istanbul

"Istanbul? Why can't we stick to the UK?" Sherlock asked, tossing the planes tickets back to Molly.

She sighed heavily. "You know why. W-we have to keep moving, Sherlock. That was a close call with Moriarty's men last week. If I h-hadn't pretended to, you know, we would've been seen," Molly replied, wringing her hands nervously.

"The man's name was Ackles," Sherlock replied wearily, flopping down on the too small hotel bed. "Yes, I'll admit, pushing me down in an alley & jumping on top of me, while unconventional & perhaps a bit reckless, proved quite effective. Although, next time I would greatly appreciate it if you would aim a little lower with your knee."

Molly blushed furiously. "I didn't mean to- I told you I was sorry for- oh god, I'm sorry," she stuttered.

Sherlock looked at her critically. "Relax, Molly, that was a joke," he sighed.

She sat down gingerly beside him & placed a hand on his knee. "Besides, you have to stop spying on John. I know you're worried about him, we all are, but you can't afford being spotted by him or anyone else," she began & he shot her an annoyed look. "I know you know, but I can't keep lying to him either," she looked at a loss for words for a moment. "Seeing the hurt in his eyes is just as hard for me as it is for you."

"It's necessary, Molly," Sherlock replied sharply.

"Don't pretend it doesn't bother you," she said exasperatedly. "I can tell it does, Sherlock. You're only torturing yourself by watching him."

Sherlock turned away from her without saying a word. Molly stood up & walked towards the door & paused for a moment with her hand on the handle, trying to think what to say.

"I'll bring you some food later," she said finally, then added sternly. "You need to eat." With that she opened the door & walked out silently.

* * *

'_The ticking of that damn clock is driving me mad_,' Sherlock thought as he sat with his knees brought up to his chest in a faux-leather armchair in a cramped hotel room on the outskirts of Istanbul. He reached over to grab his violin off the table but Molly shot him a stern look from over her book.

"That's how we got kicked out of the last hotel, remember?" she reminded him as she turned the page.

Sherlock sighed, fidgeting in his chair. "I'm bored," he said quietly.

"What?"

"I'm _bored_, Molly! God I'm so bored! I need something to do!" he protested loudly, positively squirming in his chair now.

"I could get you some more books from the library," she offered, setting her own book down to give him her full attention.

He huffed loudly. "I've already read nearly everything of interest there & we've only been here two weeks. I need something more substantial," he complained.

"Why don't you focus your energy on Moriarty's, organization?" she asked, as if unsure what to call it. "Wouldn't that take your mind off your boredom?"

"My focus would be wasted. There's nothing to be done at the moment. Turning my thoughts to something I can do nothing about is pointless, don't you see? We've been tracking them for six months already & we've made little progress."

"Well you could listen to music, that's better than playing your violin," she suggested, holding up her pink Ipod.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've looked through your collection of what you call music & I'd rather not listen to Glee or that awful girl Adele's useless crooning again. I _was_ surprised to see the Ramones though," he said with a smirk.

Molly blushed lightly. "Fine. I don't know why I offered," she retorted, picking up her book again. "Maybe you could go analyze tobacco ash or something."

Sherlock shot her an affronted look. He sat fidgeting in his chair for a while, alternating between biting his nails anxiously & drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Molly," he said finally. "Get me cigarettes."

"I don't think that'd be the best idea, it's not really good for you," she replied apologetically.

"I'm dead, I don't think it really matters," Sherlock pointed out sarcastically.

She giggled. "I'm serious, Sherlock."

"So am I. Would you deny me such a simple pleasure in order to keep my sanity, just to preserve my health? Wasn't saving me twice enough?" Sherlock argued.

She sat her book down again. "Okay, I'll get you some cigarettes. I need to go get us food anyway," she said standing up & grabbing her coat. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

Sherlock grunted absently in reply & she rolled her eyes as she walked out the door. He waited for a few minutes after she left before hopping up from his chair. He strode over to the door & snatched up his coat & scarf. Walking out into the bright, cold day, he looked about him before making his way down a dirt lane next to the hotel.

Within ten minutes he was walking back into their room. The small brass box tucked into his coat that had once been empty now contained a syringe & a plastic baggie filled with a white powder with he would later refine into a beautiful clear liquid. He didn't know when he would need to use it, that wasn't important. It was a comfort just to have it. He always had an escape this way, an insurance policy against stagnation of the mind.

Not long after Sherlock had taken his coat off & flopped down into his chair, Molly walked in carrying a bag of takeaway. She tossed the cigarettes to him, which he caught & pocketed before taking the bag from her so she could take her coat off.

"Oh, I got something else for you," she said as she took the food out of the bag & set it on the table. "I got this on my way back." She pulled out a little box & tossed it to him.

"Hair dye? What on earth would I want this for?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.

"So you don't look like, you know, yourself," she said, taking two more items out of the bag. "I got a bleaching kit & some special hair cutting scissors too. I, um, didn't know what color dye to get, I figured it would be best if it were something light. I would have asked you but I-I thought, well, I didn't think you would care much. Ginger is okay isn't it?"

He laughed. "Yes, it's fine. I suppose I should have thought of it sooner," he said, picking up the scissors & shooting her an inquisitive look.

"Don't worry, I used to do my cousin's hair all the time," she said in response to his look.

He nodded absentmindedly.

"Good, okay. W-we can do it after we eat, your hair I mean," she added awkwardly.

"I'm not hungry, you go ahead without me," he said & she gave him a concerned look. "I'll be fine, I've got cigarettes."

She gave a resigned sigh but didn't say any more. With that Sherlock slid a cigarette out of the pack & lit it carefully. He puffed it slowly as he watched her eat. She was evidently nervous about having Sherlock's attention focused on her so fully; for her face was continually pink & she dropped her fork several times. When she finished her food she gave him an unsure look.

"Um, s-shall we then?" she asked, standing up.

Sherlock ground out the cigarette in the nearby ash tray, then stood up & stalked into the bathroom. She gathered up the supplies & trotted after him. Molly found him perched on the edge of the bathtub.

"Oh I almost forgot!" she darted out of the room & returned with a small folding chair. "Here"

He pulled the chair over & sat down heavily on it & she sat behind on him where he'd just been sitting on the edge of the tub a moment ago. She looked at his reflection in the mirror in front of them, uncertain where to begin.

"I guess I should cut it first," she said quietly.

He stared at her impatiently as she grabbed a comb & the scissors off the counter. Her hands hovered over his head for a while; she was scared to touch his hair. She'd thought about it plenty of times, running her fingers through it, but actually doing it was another thing entirely. Finally she took a deep breath & started to comb it out. She caught a few snags here & there but Sherlock assured her that he wasn't tender-headed (though she could tell he was lying by his sudden sharp gasps).

As she started cutting his hair she felt less nervous, focusing entirely on the task itself. Sherlock watched in the mirror as curl after curl fell to the floor. He also watched the way Molly scrunched up her nose in concentration. It made her less clumsy, he thought, when she was focused on a task like this. He supposed this must be how she looked working at the morgue when he wasn't around to distract her & turn her into a nervous, stuttering wreck. Sherlock almost audibly scoffed at the thought. How could his mere presence produce such an unusual effect on someone? It was certainly understandable when he was trying to be intimidating or impressive to get what he wanted, but this just him, usually.

"All done," Molly's proud voice broke through his thoughts.

He returned his attention to his own reflection. The ebony curls that once framed his features were now gone & his hair stuck out in a less random way, falling in curious layers. He passed a hand through it, feeling the difference in texture. Finally he noticed Molly looking at him expectantly.

"It's still my hair I suppose. It feels lighter now," he said somewhat awkwardly, unsure what she was expecting him to say. "What do you think? Do I still look like myself?"

Molly looked startled at being asked her opinion. "Well, erm, your face looks, um, narrower now. I think Moriarty's men might still recognize you though, so we'll still have to dye it I guess," she said sheepishly.

"Yes, I suppose you're right, just cutting the curls off isn't much of a change," Sherlock replied with a laugh.

Molly smiled in reply. It took a while to bleach Sherlock's hair, long enough that even she grew tired of his complaining.

"Stop squirming, I don't want to get bleach in your eyes," she mumbled, although she'd almost dropped the container on him when he removed his shirt for the process.

"I'm not squirming," he pouted. "This is just taking too long."

"It's not like you've got anything better to do," she retorted sharply.

He folded his arms in sulking protest but said nothing more.

"I like your hair like this," Molly said once the bleaching process was finished & his hair was a golden-yellow, a shade or so lighter than John's.

"I don't," he complained. "It makes my eyes look too bright."

"I-I like your eyes," she muttered, blushing again.

Sherlock huffed but she ignored him & picked up the hair dye. She opened the box & took out a comb, a pair of plastic gloves, & the dye itself. She clumsily put on the plastic gloves & squirted some of the foamy dye into her hand. Slowly, she began working the dye into his hair, alternating between using the comb & her fingers. Once the bottle was half empty she used both hands to massage the dye down to the scalp. She found herself entirely focused again, though this time she was simply absorbed by the feeling rather than from trying to steady her own hands. Here she was in a bathroom of a hotel room, running her fingers through a shirtless Sherlock Holmes's hair. The thought made her sign in satisfaction.

"Molly," Sherlock said sharply. "Do concentrate."

Molly blushed & instantly withdrew her hands. "S-sorry, I'm sorry, I was just thinking about- um, sorry," she took a deep breath. "You'll need to let that uh, sit awhile okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes & stood up, walking back into the main room. He sprawled out in a chair & lit a cigarette, staring out the window. He'd smoked three more by the time she let him rinse the dye out. Then he let Molly blow dry it for him so they could see what it looked like. It was an interesting shade of yellow-orange. At first it reminded Molly of autumn leaves, but those had the dull impression of life being sapped out of them. This was more vivid, more alive.

"It reminds me of those nice sunflower paintings," she said, turning off the hairdryer.

"Vincent Van Gogh's sunflower series, you mean," Sherlock replied.

"Uh, yeah," she said in a surprised tone. "I thought you didn't, well, know about that stuff?"

"I took a few classes for the sake of accurate scientific drawings," he said offhandedly. "The history of it is quite stimulating & I do find art a rather fascinating subject, surprising as that may seem."

"Oh I didn't mean to, it's just that John said-"

He laughed. "John does like to think I'm oblivious to everything that isn't crime. However, my work is my own art & therefore I highly appreciate the imagination of the artist, even if I put my own imagination to different use.'

"I guess I never thought about it like that," she said bashfully.

"Clearly," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Oh don't be like that, I wouldn't expect you to. It's not really your area Molly."

He gave her a small smile & a pat on the shoulder before grabbing his coat & walking out the door. Molly was used to him going out for hours with no indication of where he'd been. She suspected that he went out into the nearby woods but he always denied it when she asked, telling her it was absurd that he'd spend hours staring at trees, even when he came back smelling of dirt & grass or had bits of leaves & twigs in his hair. She supposed that he liked the solitude it offered, not wanting to be reminded of London by going into the city. She tried not to think about it too much though, who knew what went on in his head. John probably had a better idea than she did, she thought. Sometimes she wished John could have come with Sherlock instead, Sherlock would have liked that better. After all, why would someone like Sherlock Holmes need little mouse Molly's help?

"Do stop being so self-depreciating, Molly, you know I value your help," Sherlock said in a bored tone, collapsing lazily onto his bed.

"Thank you. But wait, how did you-? Was I talking out loud?" she asked nervously.

Sherlock smiled. "No. I've been standing here a few minutes, plenty of time to follow your train of thought," he smiled more at her perplexed expression. He moved to sit down across from her. "It's rather transparent really. When I first entered the room you made no movements to signal you'd noticed my presence, signaling deep thought. I stood by the door & watched your eyes. I followed your gaze several times to objects of my own, such as my violin. Obviously you were thinking about me. I would have interrupted you but I saw your eyes focus on the magnifying lens John gave me last Christmas & grow sad. At first I thought perhaps you were simply thinking of John again but your gaze shifted momentarily to the violin again & was still sad, thus I deduced you were thinking about John & I. The sadness of your expression now seemed to indicate that you were comparing yourself to John, since you looked down guiltily at your shoes once. Then you started biting your lip, a common sign of anxiety. So you were worrying that you're not as fitting a companion as John would be & now I'm telling you that you are wrong on that part. If John's help would have been more sufficient he would be here now instead of you. It was you who pointed out that even watching him was a danger. You're only being self-depreciating by assuming that I would benefit more from John's presence," Sherlock explained in a half annoyed tone.

Molly blushed deeply at this. She opened her mouth to thank him but he held up a hand to silence her. She nodded & simply smiled instead.

For the rest of the week Molly noticed Sherlock was oddly quieter than usual. Some days he barely uttered a word, simply lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. It was as though he was in a kind of trance & it worried her greatly. She tried bringing back books she thought he might find interesting & even read aloud crimes from the rare newspapers she found in English. It was all in vain though; he would simply stare blankly at her, looking sad like he had before the incident. She vaguely remembered John mentioning (or rather complaining about) Sherlock's depressed moods but he'd never explained much about them; likely because he didn't understand them well enough.

It was boredom. Maddening, sickening, boredom. It ate away at him, dragging him down into the darkest, emptiest pits of his soul. Doldrums of the worst kind. The image, or sensation, it always conjured for him was of himself standing in a dark cavern. But the longer he stood, the further he seemed to sink down into it. The very air felt suffocating & it burned his skin with a dull, searing pain. The walls of the cavern would begin to melt as he sank deeper into the mire. And all the while there was a faint murmuring, barely more than a whisper. He'd try to run, but it made no difference. So he'd sit, allow it to envelop him in its comforting sadness for a while. Resisting only made his mind work uselessly against itself, after all. Sinking further & further down was alright for a while, he'd always find a way out. He'd soon become restless though, looking for the exit.

Molly noticed that his lethargy was followed by a burst of high energy. But it wasn't like the excited energy he exhibited in the midst of a case, it was horrible & desperate, like an animal trying to claw its way out of a cage. He paced around for hours, mumbling to himself sometimes. Other times he would rant about things for which she had no context, but she would listen anyway due to the excited passion with which he spoke. The only time he really seemed to notice her presence though were ones in which he would wear a sad smile & speak to her in low tones about the commonplaceness of life. Those were the times that worried her most, for even though it seemed like he was talking to her, her attempts at comfort or changing the subject seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"Istanbul is just a stepping stone, Sherlock," she said in a calming tone. "Just a couple more weeks & we can start working again. We just have to lie low for a bit, just for a bit."

There was the sad smile back in place again. Molly endeavored to stay out of the hotel room as often as possible after that. She checked in on him occasionally, but didn't stay long since the state of high energy was back. This was the chance Sherlock had been waiting for though. The frenzied babbling had partly been an act, & partially him working out solutions to old cases he hadn't been able to solve.

One day a few days later Molly had popped in to check on him, but she seemed eager to leave. She'd met someone clearly, at a café by the smell of her clothes. That meant she likely wouldn't look in on him until much later.

He sat plucking the strings of his violin for a while after she left, then suddenly jumped up from his chair & rushed over to his bed. He dropped to his hands & knees & ran a hand gently across the dusty floorboards until he found it: the loose floorboard. There were several he had discovered around the musty old hotel room since they had arrived but this one was most conveniently located under his bed. He lifted & moved it aside with quick precision & removed the brass box contained underneath. He carried it over to the table & opened it to reveal the syringe & a little bottle of what he had already refined into its purer form a few days earlier: cocaine. A carefully prepared 7% solution. He held the little bottle reverently in his nimble fingers for a moment before removing the syringe as well. He stuck the needle in the bottle with the same careful attention he would give to his experiments & slid the plunger slowly up. Then he held the needle level with his eyes & with a look of deep interest flicked the base so that the bubbles floated happily up to disappear. It was beautiful, he thought, staring at the crystal clear liquid. He stared at it a moment longer, satisfied that there were no more bubbles, & set it down gently on the table. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt sleeve, and then slowly, deliberately, rolled the sleeve up; he was in no hurry. After pushing up the sleeve as far as it would go he picked up the needle with his right hand. He flexed his fingers a few times, choosing the proper vein. Finally he decided on the right one & with his long, slender fingers he sunk the needle into his arm. He left it sitting for just a moment, relishing in the slight pain, before pushing down on the plunger, sending the drug pumping into his body. He flexed his fingers again in anticipation of the end to his boredom. It crept upon him slowly at first, boiling warmly up inside him. Then it hit him & it was as though a flame had sparked at the very center of his being, spreading out to his fingertips & down to his toes. He felt lite, like a weight was being lifted from him & he could see everything clearly & detailed again & he could practically hear his heartbeat drumming along.

Suddenly he jumped up from his chair & strode over to the window & with a swift movement threw the thin, ratty curtains open to let in the bright afternoon sunlight. Had he been back as 221B he would have typically shut himself away from the outside world, opting to stretch out on his bed, or if John was away, drape himself lazily across the couch. But out here away from the gloomy, all too public atmosphere of London, he welcomed the invigorating sunlight. He sat sprawled out in the armchair for hours, watching dust particles swirling & dancing in the sunbeams streaming through the window. The sun had well set when the high finally started to wear off, but he simply turned his attention to the slow movements of the shadows now that he could no longer focus on the light. He didn't even bother to turn on the lights & when Molly returned he was sitting in the dark, plucking the strings of the violin, in the same position he'd been in when she left.

"Have you been out at all?" she asked hesitantly.

"No," he replied, not even looking up.

"Oh, okay then," she said with a confused expression.

During the next two weeks they stayed in Istanbul Sherlock used cocaine three times. Once he took a walk through the woods, examining everything in detail. Another time he took his violin to a secluded field in the country & played a piece by Paganini with such fervor he actually broke the A string. The last he simply laid on the floor of the hotel room, studying the scars & acid stains on his hands from various experiments. And each time Molly was none the wiser.


	2. Austria

Finally, and to Sherlock's delight, they were on their way to Austria where Sherlock had some record of a small but influential group of Moriarty's organization that operated from an obscure village in the northern part of the country. Unfortunately the village was so small that they had to find lodgings in a neighboring town. They stayed at a cramped little bed and breakfast where they were able to each have their own rooms. That was especially good news to Molly since Sherlock talked in his sleep rather loudly and it had awoken her a few times before. And really she wouldn't have minded much if any of it had made sense. Instead what she heard were strings of incoherent words and phrases that she had no context for. She supposed Sherlock's mind was just as active when he was asleep. _He must never really rest_, she thought with concern, _I couldn't imagine_.

It took them a week to pinpoint the exact location of Moriarty's men. They operated, as it seemed, mainly from an old Victorian style house in the center of the neighboring village. The house itself was owned by an old, but shrewd man named Eugene Hütz. And it was a tedious week Sherlock spent collecting all this information. He'd followed people, sneaked into public record houses in all the surrounding towns, and even watched the house in question on multiple occasions. From what Sherlock had observed it seemed that the place was essentially an information center. Most records of the organization were either stored there, or at least passed through there. The men that ran the place were mostly old business men with a head for organization. However, the place was strongly guarded and Sherlock suspected Moriarty had bought every house in the village to house the people protecting the place. The group hired to guard was obviously a formidable bunch, he noted. Their leader was by far the most dangerous of the lot though. He had come to discover that her name was Isadora Klein. She was tan, thin, and beautiful with sharp, cat-like features. Her eyes were a dark green and her hair was pure black, kept in short finger waves most of the time. Sherlock had learned that before working for Moriarty she lived in New Orleans and was a champion female boxer shortly before becoming a gun for hire with her brother in the States. It was this way Moriarty heard of her talents and hired her permanently. Sherlock's usual method would have been to confront the woman himself but even with his new appearance it was too risky. And Molly was certainly not suitable to do so. She was invaluable as a listening ear, however. Her innocent demeanor made it easy for her to mingle in the shops, completely invisible, and her friendly nature made it simple to extract information from chatty locals as well. She learned the hours the old house operated, the names of the men in charge (as well as their aliases), and even that the old place was appropriately named Beehive Manor.

One the tenth evening of their stay Sherlock and Molly posed as a married couple touring through the countryside and watched the Manor from a picnic blanket in a nearby field until well after dark. Naturally, even after operating hours the place was still just as heavily guarded, but it was better to have the cover of darkness at least. Sherlock had initially planned to have Molly stay back and keep watch but she insisted so vehemently that she was capable of helping that he gave in, lest she follow him anyway and get herself caught.

The journey up to the house was slow and nerve-wracking. Molly twisted her hands nervously as they trekked through the brakes of trees, sometimes breathing too loudly for Sherlock's liking, but his face was impassive and calm as ever. Once they reached the house the only way in was through an old padlocked cellar door, since Molly couldn't climb the drain pipe to the open window on the second floor. Luckily it took Sherlock only a few minutes to pick the multiple locks and they crept onward. The cellar was damp and pitch-black but they dared not attempted to look for a light. Eventually they found a staircase and made their way up into a quiet hallway. Now that they were inside they found it was oddly peaceful, as any other old country manor might be. As they passed silently down the hallway Sherlock spun around sharply at a noise behind him. Molly blushed, having knocked into a side table and almost disrupted a small vase with an iris sticking out of it. Sherlock shot her a disapproving glare that caused her to blush deeper, but besides that continued as if nothing had happened. He was too focused on the task ahead to take time reprimanding Molly. At the end of the cramped hallway were two doors and to their right a tiny staircase covered with tattered red carpet, which smelled faintly of mold. They cautiously opened the door to their left and stepped into what was likely a comfortable sitting room once. However, it was now scattered with filing cabinets and desks, as well as several fold-up chairs. The place smelled strongly of dust, though it was obviously frequently used. Molly found herself wondering if it was due to the somewhat moth-eaten curtains that hung over the long windows, but Sherlock was already busy picking the lock on one of the filing cabinets. Once he'd done so he promptly moved to the next while Molly searched through the files for anything incriminating, or at least useful. In the first cabinet however there seemed to be nothing but records of how the house itself was kept: electric bills, grocery bills, receipts, etc. She sighed and started on another cabinet. By this time Sherlock had unlocked all the cabinets and helped Molly search. The majority of them were filled with nothing of use, though Sherlock hadn't expected to find the information they needed lying about so haphazardly.

"Sherlock, look at this," Molly said finally in barely a whisper.

She was indicating to a collection of unlabeled files at the bottom of a cabinet that almost seemed to be there by accident. Sherlock leaned over her shoulder to examine one that she had spread open across one of the desks. Unlike the papers in the other folders, these were not neatly typed, but scrawled in pen and occasionally pencil. Besides that, they weren't in any recognizable language, but instead appeared to be the drawings of a child. Clearly a cipher of some sort.

"It looks like, dancing men," Molly whispered in a confused tone. "I wonder what-" but Sherlock held up a hand sharply to cut her off.

He seemed to be straining to listen to something and then Molly heard a faint clinking vaguely to her left towards the back of the house. She looked over at Sherlock questioningly, who had straightened up and was acutely tense and alert. Molly opened her mouth to speak but Sherlock seized her wrist tightly. They both stood stock still for a moment, then Sherlock grabbed the pile of ciphered files, and still holding onto Molly dragged her over to the curtains on the far wall. No sooner had they hidden behind them than the door opened and the light was turned on. Sherlock pushed back the curtain just slightly to see a lean, austere older gentleman pouring over a folder at a desk in the far corner, sipping a cup of tea. The man was there for what seemed like hours but in reality was about twenty minutes before walking over to one of the cabinets with the folder. He pulled out a small key to unlock it but gave a startled look when he pulled on the handle and it slid open. He hurried out of the room through the door from which he'd entered earlier and they heard him speaking to someone in a low tone.

"You're sure you locked them all?'

"I am certain of it. I checked them myself before I retired."

"Has Bernard been in since then? He came in rather late this evening."

"Haven't the faintest. Why don't you go ask him yourself?"

"No need to get annoyed, you know how cautious we must be, especially with M gone," he gave a long-suffering sigh. "I'll go ask him then."

They heard the door open again and a younger man walked into the room and looked around. Molly nearly emitted a gasp as the man strode in their direction. Sherlock had to put a hand to her mouth to prevent her screaming when the curtain was pulled back.

"You must be gone at once Mister Barker. They'll soon be in a panic and I can no longer afford to assist you. They trust me more than their own men as it currently stands and it will be my neck and yours if you delay. I got you in, it is up to you to find your way out," the man muttered purposefully, then turned on his heel and walked out.

Sherlock motioned wordlessly for Molly to follow him as he stepped around the curtain and walked to the door leading to the hallway they had entered through. He stuck his head cautiously through the door and looked about. It seemed as empty as before, except now he heard soft voices floating down the dingy staircase. He paused there for a few moments, trying to assess the closeness of the voices. Then he took a careful step into the hallway, pulling Molly behind him. Sherlock gave her a look telling her to be careful not to bump into anything this time as they passed silently down the hall. However they had barely taken a few steps when they heard the voices upstairs grow louder. Sherlock felt Molly lightly shaking as he grasped her wrist. But before he could hurry them both down the hallway the front door suddenly burst open and Isadora Klein bounded through it, wild-eyed and wielding two automatic handguns.

"Ha! Don't think I don't know you, Mister Barker! What are you snooping around here for? Well, we'll soon find out, won't we?" she sneered, then fired a shot that would have hit Molly in the shoulder had Sherlock not pulled her back towards the door they had just come through.

Another bullet went through the wall just as Sherlock and Molly hurried back into the room with the files. He let go of Molly's wrist as they ran towards the nearest window, winding their way through the various desks and chairs. He thrust the folders into her arms, then tore open the curtain. Before he could undo the heavy latch Isadora and two of her security, a man and a woman, had followed them into the room and a shot rang out, shattering the window pane just next to Sherlock's head.

"Idiot!" Isadora shouted to the man. "Don't kill them, we want information!"

But before she could finish lecturing them, Sherlock had undone the latch and pulled a terrified looking Molly through the window with him out onto the long front porch of the Manor. They heard a barrage of gunshots behind them as they jumped over the railing and landed on the scraggly grass. They bolted across the sweeping lawn but it wasn't long before Isadora was sprinting through the front door after them. They heard two more shots ring out into the cold night air and on the third Sherlock gave a yelp of pain; she'd shot him in his right hand, just below the wrist. Seeing that hadn't slowed them down she aimed another shot, this time hitting Molly above the back of her knee. Had it not been so dark, Isadora would have aimed for their Achilles tendons. The bullet that hit Molly served its purpose to slow them down however. She gave a shriek and would have collapsed to the ground had Sherlock not caught her arm and practically dragged her along. Finally they reached a little stream that Sherlock had taken note of the day before and dragged Molly along through a section he knew to be shallow. They realized shortly after that Isadora must have gone the wrong way and lost them. Molly tried to suggest they find a hospital but Sherlock reminded her that Moriarty's influence was too strong in this area and they'd be sure to check the hospitals since Isadora knew they were injured. Their best option was to get out of the area as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible.

"Is your hand alright?" Molly asked in between gasping breaths when they reached the hotel finally.

Sherlock glanced at the wound on his hand and at the half dry blood now caked around it and down his arm with an air of disinterest before pulling out his laptop.

"Hmm? Oh yes, it barely grazed me. I dare say your knee is in far worse condition. Give me a moment and I'll help you tend to it," he replied, not looking up from his laptop as he typed furiously, wincing occasionally from the pain in his hand.

Molly hobbled slowly into the bathroom, realizing she was fighting back tears, and Sherlock heard her turn on the sink. Within a few minutes Sherlock snapped his laptop shut and joined her. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wiping away the blood that had flowed down her leg with a wet rag and her skirt had been pushed up to her mid-thigh. Sherlock knelt beside her and took the rag. She looked surprised but didn't protest as he started cleaning the blood for her.

"I would have carried you when I say you were hurt, but with my hand I couldn't risk dropping you. Miss Klein certainly knew what she was doing," Sherlock said in a subdued tone.

Molly said nothing except for a few winces and whimpers as the rag passed over the wound; she seemed almost in a state of shock.

After the blood was as much cleaned away as possible Sherlock sighed and tossed the rag in the sink. "Come on, there's a first aid kit in the other room," he said, pulling her to her feet and leading her into the main room.

He sat her down on the table, rather than a chair and pulled out one of the drawers that held a heavy first aid kit. He opened the lid and dug around before pulling out a rather large pair of tweezers and some gauze. He set them on the table, then sprinted to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of towels. When he returned he laid the towels down on the floor next to her.

"Do you want anything for the pain?" he asked, looking at her concernedly.

She nodded and he pulled a bottle of pain killers out of the kit.

"Take two," he said, handing her the bottle and going to get her some water.

When he handed her the water she downed the pills with a shake of her head, a habit she'd developed as a child. He looked at the still bleeding wound and touched the skin just underneath it lightly with the tips of his fingers.

"How badly does it hurt?" he asked suddenly, looking up at her.

"Um, well, not as much as before when we were running, but quite a bit yeah. I didn't really feel it when she first shot me though, I guess I was too surprised, or busy running," she said quietly.

"You cried out," Sherlock pointed out.

"I did? I don't remember doing that. The whole thing seems a little blurry really after you pulled me out of that window," she replied confusedly.

Sherlock suddenly looked up at her and grasped her hand. "I'm sorry Molly. I shouldn't have let you come," he said, his eyes full of concern.

She shook her head resolutely. "No, don't, don't say that. I asked to go, I just wanted to help. All I did was slow you down though," she bit her lip.

"Nonsense, Molly. I wouldn't have found those files without you," he said with a smile, indicating to the pile of folders on his bed.

She smiled back and let out a nervous laugh.

"Well," he said, patting her other leg. "I think I may need you to lie down to remove the bullet."

"Is it deep then?" she asked worriedly.

"No, luckily it's quite shallow, it's just at somewhat of an odd angle," Sherlock replied.

"Have you ever done this?" Molly asked as she got up and with some effort lay down on her bed.

"Once, for John. Of course, it was done more quickly and haphazardly with him because we were on the run. He could stand the pain anyway," Sherlock said, bringing the supplies over to the bed.

After setting them down he took off his belt and fastened it tightly around her leg above the wound. Molly let out a whimper as the pain pills hadn't fully kicked in yet. Then he took the pair of tweezers and pulled his lighter out of his pocket. He held the tweezers over the lighter flame for a few moments then took out a pocket knife and did the same.

"If you feel any more pain just bite down on your blanket," he reminded her solemnly.

Then he knelt carefully with one knee on the bed and in his left hand he took the large tweezers. With scientific precision he used the tweezers to pry open the wound, causing a sharp intake of breath from Molly. In his right hand he still held the knife with slender, steady fingers. He took a deep breath before plunging the knife with as much delicacy as he could into the wound. It didn't take him long to locate the bullet and found it was even less deep than he thought. He heard Molly start to sob as he began to dig the bullet out. He was glad at least that the bleeding wasn't as profuse as before and he could somewhat see what he was doing. After ten minutes the bullet finally surfaced, it had taken longer than he'd expected since he had been trying to be careful not to hurt her, and he plucked it out with the tweezers and set it on the nearby towel. Then he retrieved an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit and cleaned the wound and surrounding blood as best he could. When he glanced at Molly her face was wet and red from crying and screwed up in pain. She was biting the blanket as he had suggested and other parts of it were balled up tightly in her fists. Although once the bullet was out she started to relax slowly and eventually removed the blanket from her mouth, she was breathing heavily.

"Don't get up just yet," Sherlock said, placing a hand on the back of her leg.

He reached over and grabbed the gauze and started to slowly wrap the wound. When he was finished he removed the belt and put it back on. Molly twisted around to look at him and he nodded to affirm that she could get up now. She tried to hop up but found the pain killers combined with the dull pain still throbbing in her leg made her feel very slow and just a little woozy. Sherlock couldn't help but smile in amusement and laughed when she pouted indignantly as she finally managed to pull herself to her feet.

"Was that the hotel's?" Molly asked, indicating to the first aid kit Sherlock was putting the remainder of the supplies back into. "It looks familiar."

"No," Sherlock replied absently.

"Then where-?"

"Saint Bart's," Sherlock cut her off as he snapped the lid to the kit shut.

"Oh," she said, nodding slowly. "So um, where are we off to next then?"

Sherlock sighed as he packed his kit away in his bag, then started on packing his clothes. "Amsterdam. I have a, friend, there who has agreed to let us stay with him for as long as we need," he said wearily. "Now hurry up, we haven't a moment to lose."

"We're not flying are we?" Molly asked as she walked over to the dresser holding her clothes and began stuffing them into the purple travel bag next to it.

"We'll be taking the bus, less noticeable," Sherlock said.

They pack the rest of their things in silence and within fifteen minutes they were making their way to the bus station.


End file.
